


Summer heat

by Naicele



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, Drinking, First Time Blow Jobs, Getting Together, Ghosts, Hunters & Hunting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-07-25 13:52:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16198823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naicele/pseuds/Naicele
Summary: On a job in a small town where the brother has a history Sam is angry all the time and Dean is distracted by people from the past. Things seems to be coming to a point, can Dean fix this while keeping everyone alive as a flesh eating beast haunts the town?





	Summer heat

**Author's Note:**

> While Dean/Sam is the endgame here I use an original character as a plot mechanism to get that to happen. Ye has been warned.  
> Story originally posted elsewhere, now archived here.

  1. **Strife**



Dean drags his fork over the empty plate, metal making a screeching, rasping sound on the porcelain. He is so tired his head feels as if filled with cotton and his eyes full of grit. Sam winces at the sound, head resting in his left hand as he pokes despondently at his food.

“Fuck Dean, stop it,” He manages, but it is empty, lacking in spite and Dean can tell his brother is just moving on autopilot.

They are both bone deep tired, not having slept properly in days, or was it weeks? Dean can’t remember when he last slept; sleep is a foreign luxury they can’t allow themselves. They aren’t even on a job right now, just moving as far as they can across the country, hoping against hope that they will outrun themselves. Leave everything behind and become new people.

The waitress comes up, she looks bleary eyed and sick of life. Dean heard her talking on the phone earlier, to her kid by how it sounded, telling her or him that yeah she would be home soon, she promised. He decides to tip her real well.

He looks over at Sam who has fallen asleep; head still resting in his hand, mouth open and he is almost snoring. Dean thinks they can’t keep this up, have to stop, have to rest, but he knows they won’t. Instead he picks up Sam’s toast and eats it, teeth crunching through the hard crust and the noise is too loud in his head.

Dean pays and tips the waitress who smiles almost believable at him but he can’t for the life of him care at the moment. They have been doing this too much since their father died, he knows it, but they are both too fucked up to slow down. Only thing keeping them going is the hunt, the thing they grew up to do, the only thing they know how to do together.

Dean looks at Sam, the remnants of his broken family, and he almost regrets going to Stanford and picking him up. Should have left him he thinks, left him in his safe world of books and pretty girls.

Sam wakes up then, sits up with a jerk, a streak of saliva on his chin and he stares at Dean.

“What the fuck man, why did you let me fall asleep?” Sam twists his mouth, eyes staring hard at his brother, not really seeing him.

“Looked like you needed it dude,” Dean replies tiredly and he whishes Sam would just let things rest.

“Who the fuck are you to tell me what I need,” Sam sits up, refusing to look his brother in the eyes.

Craptastic,” Dean says and a default sneer settles on his face.

Something ugly crosses Sam’s face, “Dude, that’s not even a proper word, what are you twelve?”

 

ooo

 

It is some days later and Dean is lying on his back on a lumpy motel bed, arms stretched straight out from his sides, his left leg hurts; a vendigo getting way too close. He must have slept an hour or two because it is starting to get light outside, grey starting to eat away at the solid black. He is so tired he thinks he is hallucinating, pink elephants dancing across his retinas, but he can’t sleep. It had been too close, much too close. His reflexes dulled by lack of sleep and mind not really caring if he lives or dies anymore.

He thinks again that they need to stop this, need to slow down. Every time he says something to Sam an evil glare settles on his brother’s face and Dean knows it means, you got me back into this so quit complaining. So he shuts up and he keeps going even though he knows it will kill them both eventually. All he hopes for is that they will go at the same time; he knows he can’t live without Sam but he can’t leave him behind either. He feels nauseated, it is his task to take care of him and right now he is doing a crap job of it.

He gives up sleeping and turns his face down from the ceiling, for half a second he sees Sam looking at him from the other side of the room; strange feverish look in his eyes, like glowing embers. He is not sure though because as soon as he catches his eyes Sam looks away, haunted face turning back to the flickering screen of his laptop. No hunt for three days and Sam is searching for something, anything to give them a purpose. It is like he can’t be alone with Dean a second more than he has to, like every moment the two of them are relaxing together is hurting him. Dean knows it is him who twists the dagger but he can’t understand why.

He sits up on the bed, his whole body aching, mind reeling from the fact that his brother probably hates him and he is too tired all the time to figure out why. Much less do something about it.

“You find anything?” He asks, because it’s expected of him.

“Yeah maybe,” Sam says, voice all gritty and slow and Dean thinks that Sam hasn’t slept at all. He looks to his side and the other bed still looks made up and neat. He glowers at the ugly sheets as if their orderliness is a personal affront.

Dean nods his head and goes to take a shower. Under the warm water the mud in his head clears for a bit and the taste, like broken glass, in his mouth dies back to a background noise. He lifts his head into the hot stream and it scalds his face, burns away everything that he is and for a second he is almost complacent. The warm water runs out fast though and too soon he is shivering in the cold and has to get out, face the world again.

As he exits the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist Sam doesn’t look up, face intently turned to the screen, even though to Dean it doesn’t look like he is actually doing anything.

“So tell me,” Dean says.

Sam scowls, “What?”, still not looking at his brother.

“About the case,” Dean says rummaging around in his bag for clean clothes, too tired for this shit he thinks.

Sam looks confused, eyes glancing over Dean then slapping back to his screen fast, then he says, “Two dead, brother and sister age 17 and 19, all doors looked, police has no idea what happened. Sounds like our kind of thing.”

Dean nods, pulls a pair of boxers and a t-shirt on and throws away the towel, a wet crumpled pile on the floor.

“Good.”

Sam nods; head turned down and away, bangs hanging down into his eyes hiding them. Dean walks over, placing a hand on his shoulder, he wants to console him, say that everything will be ok if Sam would just look at him. If he would just meet his eyes then Dean would know if they would be ok eventually, if they can get through this latest thing.

“Don’t you fucking touch me,” Sam growls, shakes him off and rises as he picks up his wallet, back to Dean.

They should go get breakfast anyway; Dean grabs his own stuff on auto-pilot as he watches Sam out of the corner of his eye. His head spinning and he thinks that he should do something, he just don’t know what.

There is something so fundamentally wrong between them; yet, it is his job to fix it. There has to be something he can do to make things right again, something that will keep Sam by his side. Anything, as long as Sam does not leave him.

He has no idea what though and it hurts, hurts like nothing before.

 

ooo

 

“Belmont,” Dean says again and Sam looks like he wants to thump him over the head with something heavy. They are in the Impala half a day’s drive away and Sam is driving since Dean wanted to go over the info about the case himself.

“Just give it up Dean, we’ll be there soon so just quit it,” Dean looks over at him, faked injury on his face, making his best puppy dog eyes at Sam. Sam ignores him, like he always does nowadays, so Dean just huffs and turns his concentration back to the newspapers.

‘”I just know I have been there before but I can’t place it.” Sam shakes his head and turns up the volume on the car stereo until it’s blasting too loud to hear anything and his brother’s mutterings are drowned out by Bon Scott’s piercing vocals.

 

 

  1. **Denial**



They aren’t talking as they arrive at the police station. Something about Dean getting the wrong room at the motel, even though Sam had told him to just pick one. Then Sam had refused to change when Dean screamed at him that he could ask for a new one if he was going to be a dick about it. Now Sam just leaves the car and Dean has to run a few steps to catch up with him across the small parking lot to the side of the low concrete building.

He takes an extra long step and reaches the door first, squeezing past Sam on his way, he can feel the indignant glare on his back as he pushes the glass door open, but hey, he is the oldest; he should go first. Inside looks like any other police station he has ever seen, all beiges and browns and a few hard plastic seats for visitors. He walks up to the counter and starts to pull his badge out. The clerk looks at him expectantly.

“How can I help you sir?” the man, or rather boy, says. He is taking in the black suits and ties they had changed to and the air of danger they could never really hide from anyone who had ever dealt with the wrong side of the law. His spotted face looks almost exited, as if not much ever happens here. Which in hindsight, it probably never did.

“FBI, here to see the boss,” Dean says, feeling Sam’s presence next to him.

The guy looks to his side and says, “He is just here now,” and points towards a tall guy coming round the corner, a brown paper folder in his hand. The newcomer glances up and says, “What’s going on Trey?”

Before the clerk can answer the uniformed man stops abruptly and falls silent as he takes in the sight of the two brothers in their suits and raised badges. Then the clouds are driven away and his face breaks into a smile.

“Well, well if isn’t Dean Winchester. I never thought I would see your scrawny ass in this town again.” The sheriff is smiling widely, white teeth gleaming in his tanned face. Dean pulls himself together and carefully slides his badge with the fake name on it back into his pocket.

“Hey Bill, long time no see man.” He smiles back, easily settling into his default setting of carefree laid back guy you can trust, the one he normally affixes around people who aren’t Sam.

Bill laughs and comes over to them, he gives Dean a hug; one arm around his waist and the other one thumping him on the back. He draws back and turns to Sam, offering his hand.

“Bill Pearlman, Sheriff. Nice to meet you agent Bloom,” he says after looking at Sam’s badge. Sam shakes his hand back, shooting Dean sideway glances which Dean pretends he doesn’t see.

“Come, my office is over here,” Bill leads the way and ushers them into a small room, a desk with a computer on it and a couple of chairs take up most of the space. On the wall there are a couple of pictures. Bill with a big trout, Bill in a softball uniform, Bill shaking some woman’s hand, and so on. They all sit down and Bill offers them drinks which they turn down.

“Well I think this will take some time getting used to,” Bill shakes his head, blue eyes looking with astonishment at Dean. “FBI Dean, really? You have come up in the world.” He smiles to show he means it in a good way and carefully places the file in his hand in a drawer. He looks expectedly at the brothers.

“Yeah well you have to earn a living somehow,” Dean says, whishing he could actually think of something believable to say. The sheriff just nods, as in agreement.

The man leans back in his chair and ruefully crosses his arms in front of him, gaze stuck on Dean, looking him up and down as if trying to create a new place for him in the world.

“You look the same,” he says at last, a secretive smile at the corner of his lips. Dean shrugs, not sure what to say. He averts his eyes, for some reason slightly embarrassed. Dean glances at Sam and he is startled, he thinks there might be hate in Sam’s narrowed eyes as he looks at Bill. Bill doesn’t seem to notice, all attention on Dean.

“So I guess you two are here on business?” he says at last, “Since Dean here called this place the shithole of the world which he would never stay a single second longer in, if he had a choice.” He smiles again to show that there are no hard feelings; Dean has forgotten how Bill Perlman’s could smile, when he wanted to. His smiles a weapon that made mothers and fathers alike wish they had a daughter they could pair him up with just so they could keep him in the family.

“Yeah well man, you knew how things were in those days,” Dean shrugs, smiling back.

“And when exactly were those days” Sam says casually, turning in his chair to face both Dean and Bill.

“Must have been ten years ago or more, I stayed in this town for a while, with my brother.” Dean puts some emphasis on the last bit, meaning for Sam to shut it. Sam off course, the bitch that he is, does no such thing.

“Ah, your brother,” Sam says and Dean mentally kicks him in the knees a hundred or so times before he smiles with gritted teeth at Sam.

“Yeah, he had a broken arm and spent all his time in bed. We didn’t stay that long.” Sam nods as if he too now remembered that yeah they had stayed here for a while. They had always moved around so much when they were kids, especially out of term, that they have both long since forgotten all the places they have been to. For a moment Dean thinks Sam will let it be, but he has no such luck.

“So you went to school together then?”  Sam asks Bill, a smile which could be taken as polite and innocent on his face, which Dean knows is no such thing.

“Na, it was during the summer, Dean just sailed in one day like he owned the place. All attitude and cockiness,” Bill nods at Sam and smiles widely while Dean cringes, “We became friends when we both got thrown out of a roadhouse for having fake IDs. Don’t tell the guys at the station,” he adds trying to create a sense of shared secrets. Sam does not seem moved.

Bill continues, “We kept being best friends for that summer until one day Dean just left the way he came. Never met again since,” Bill looks at Dean as he says the last, obviously expecting some explanation. Dean clears his throat and says vaguely, “Yeah well you remember my dad and his job…” Bill just nods and then leans forward, elbows resting on the desk.

“So what can I do for you both then?”

Sam jumps in and leans forward as well, arms on his knees, “We are investigating the deaths of Tammy Clayton and Johannes Clayton. We understand you are handling the case?”

Bill grimace as Sam mentions their names, “Nasty business that, they where good people, never hurt a fly. The entire town is worked up about it. Ever since their mother died last year they have been fending for themselves and now this.” He shakes his head, “But they died in an animal accident, a freak one if you don’t mind me saying but what would the feds have to do with that?”

“The freak bit exactly,” Dean says, “We just want to be sure about what happened.”

 

ooo

 

They are sitting in a booth across from each other in a diner which looks like any other diner. The kitchen smells of cooking fat, the formica table tops are almost clean and the food is at least edible. Between them is a pile of papers, two personal files with school photos of smiling kids with ugly haircuts attached to them, a single letter of writing and a handful of half-assed crime scene photographs.

Sam turns the photos of the dead siblings over again, snorting in disgust at the incompetence of the photographer.

Dean sighs, “Leave it Sam, this is likely their first double murder in history”.

Sam ignores him and read the description of the bodies and the suggestion from the local law enforcement that some sort of smallish, but deadly, animal had crawled in though the bathroom window, killed the pair, chewed on them a bit and then escaped the way it had come.

They had both read it several times already, seen the fumbling in the dark to explain things which seemed unexplainably for what it was.

“We should just go over to their house and check,” Dean says, “There is nothing in that file for us.”

Sam puts the papers down, “Guess your buddy is as incompetent as you would think,” the word buddy has a slight sneer to, as if it’s suddenly not ok for Dean to know people besides Sam. Even though Sam seems to think that Dean really shouldn’t know him either, and could he please just never have been born.

“You know as well as I that this is what all normal people do when faced with stuff like this,” Dean says tiredly, whishing he could start all over with Sam, be born again and get a second try.

“What do you think, werewolf? Or a small ghoul maybe?”

Sam shakes his shoulders and finishes his coffee. He looks out the window and aimlessly toys with a paper napkin, rolling it between his fingers.

“So we did live here,” he says eventually and Dean who is watching him closely thinks he looks almost wistful.

“Yeah, just that summer for a few weeks. You remember? When you broke your arm?”

Sam turns back to look at him and for a moment it is old Sam. The Sam who did not carry the world’s collected sorrow on his shoulders and blamed Dean for it. He could see the twinkle in his eyes, mouth almost but not really curling up in a smile. Dean truly loves him like this.

“Yeah that fucking ghost, I nailed it good though. The bastard didn’t even see me coming.”

Dean snorts, “It broke your arm dude!”

“I won that’s what matters in the end,” Sam protests.

Dean grins at his brother, glad to be thinking of good old times and happy that Sam is his old self, but then Sam interrupts him.

“Dad was so pissed off I didn’t wait in the car as he told me,” and Dean sees him virtually creeping back into himself, that wall of anger put back up and his heart screams in pain. It feels so much worse now that he has remembered what it used to be like. He can feel his throat clench and he balls his fist under the table, fingernails cutting into the palm of his hand.

“He was just afraid you’d get hurt,” he says and he sees that whatever he thought, that had been the wrong thing to say.

“Then he shouldn’t have dragged us out with him on his fucking crusade then, should he?” and Sam’s tone is daring Dean to disagree with him so he can start a fight all over again. So he can scream at Dean because he can’t stand to talk to him anymore.

Dean has learnt some things in the last couple of months though. So he keeps it to himself that he thinks Sam is being a baby and unfair to their dad. He looks down at the table and pushes the blurry photographs together and puts them back in the file so the waitress won’t have to see them.

Sam gives him a disgusted look, full of loathing and that other thing Dean can never identify which is like a fever burning his brother, consuming him from inside. It is taking his brother from him, bit by bit.

“Let’s just check out the house first thing in the morning” Dean says tiredly.

 

 

  1. **Repression**



Dean tosses and turns in his motel bed. When he finally falls asleep it is light, uneasy and full of dreams. He is 16 years old again and it is that summer. He is himself and at the same time he is remembering himself. It is like he is walking around in his own head, all his memories there to watch like on a silver screen.

Everything feels like only yesterday as he watches his younger self walk into a roadhouse. He sees that moment he met that guy at the pool table, eyes challenging, questioning. They played to a tie and then they got too drunk and an off duty cop comes over asking to see their IDs. They look at each other, same thought in their heads and they both turned and ran.

They’d been inseparable after that, weeks of just bumming around, swimming and drinking beer the guy stole from his uncle’s gas station. Dean’s dad had been away somewhere and Sam had just moped over his broken arm and read the entire time, never minding that Dean was never home.

It had been a heath stricken summer and even if had only lasted a handful of weeks it had seemed like forever when it happened. Time had stood still in that small countryside town. All the days and nights melting into one long stretch of endless summer. The only solid points had been the river you could swim in, their rundown house way in the outskirts of town, and Bill. In his dream it was all obscure at the edges and yet he could still feel the same unrelenting heat in the air which made you lazy as hell and made it impossible to think straight.

The hood of the car always too warm to touch and you could see heat mirages when you looked down the road. His skin always covered in a shiny layer of sweat and his head full of these heated thoughts which should have been wrong but wouldn’t go away. The sun burned and his mind burned at the same time, and everything had a frantic last day on earth feel to it. So brittle it would break if you touched it.

He dreams of tanned skin and lean muscles, the feel of Bill’s hand flat on his stomach burning like the sun itself. His body burning too as Bill slides his hand down and thumbs open the buttons of his jeans one by one and him thinking that he would burst into flames. If he got any hotter he would be incinerated, nothing left but a smear of blackened ash.

Both days and nights had been long and endless, his mind and body lazy and warm from the sun and the smell of Bill’s skin, tasting of sun beams and salt crystals. He is there again, fused with the dream and he is unable to question it, just as he had been then. He just rolls with the wave of warmth and whatever comes with it. His mind is blown, lying flat on his back on a blanket spread on the ground, already forgetting who put it there and his hands stroking up over hot flesh as Bill lifts his legs over his shoulders.

Then in the dream it is not Bill anymore but Sam, just like he looks now only calmer, happier. Sam is smiling above him, his hair messy and hanging down across his face.

His mind is confused and the dream wavers and flickers, but then in that dreamlike way he realizes that of course it has to be Sam, why wouldn’t it be. Sam, always Sam. His brother smiles at him, all crocked and pretty and leans down towards his face and Dean wakes up abruptly.

He is bathing in sweat, sheets stuck to his back and hair damp. He is disoriented at first, can’t remember when or where he is, but his hand closes on the knife under his pillow and he can see the barest outline of his brother in the bed beside him, chest rising and falling slowly as he sleeps. Now he is fully awake, having located the important things in the world.

Dean rolls over on his back and stares up at the ceiling and the dream separates from reality. Its details come back to him, flooding his mind and he realizes he has an almost painful hard on. He feels sick, why would he dream such a thing. He places his hands under his head, he will not in any way touch himself. He closes his eyes and tries to think of all the ways you can kill a ghoul but all he can see is Sam and his parted lips and he reels away from the memory with all he has. His mind must be more screwed up than he had ever realized.

It is all Bill’s fault he thinks but the blatant lie simply mocks him. He had been there after all; he knew that was not the case.

Everything had seemed like a hallucination that summer, the heat clouding his mind and making it seem ok, like it didn’t matter because it was not real. Once the warmth went away he would be back to his normal self, the curling hot tendrils in his stomach gone as well.

Afterwards he had sort of forgotten about those weeks, they had seemed so surreal; like it had happened to somebody else. Or maybe not forgotten precisely, just stored it away far, far back in his mind and then he had forgotten to think about it. He was a pragmatic at heart; they hadn’t fit how he saw himself so the easiest way had been not to try.

Now he lies awake staring at nothing until a weak light filters in through the drawn curtains and he can feel the pounding of a headache creeping in with the light.

 

ooo

 

The house is small and run down, the porch out front sagging in one end and even though you could see that it had once been white almost all color has fallen off by now. Dean picks the backdoor lock while Sam keeps a lookout for any nosy neighbors. They have changed out of the suits for the day and are in their normal clothes. Dean is wearing his dad’s old leather jacket over his standard outfit of black tee and jeans. He felt like he had to do something after he chickened out from defending the late guy to Sam yesterday.

He thinks Sam gets that is why he wears it today because he is giving him the silent treatment yet again. It is ok though, it is better than the arguing and name calling. Silence Dean can do. Then he can pretend that nothing is wrong. As long as he has something to do the messed up, wrong thing between them can be almost ignored and he can pretend that he has slept well and not dreamed at all.

They search the place, looking for anything supernatural related. It doesn’t take long; it is a small place, one floor and no basement or cellar, just two bedrooms, a living room, a toilet with a clogged drain in the floor, and kitchen. They check the bathroom window. The police have left it as they found it, open.  It is too small for any human or an animal dangerous enough to brutally murder two healthy people. Yet, large enough for a whole range of supernatural nastiness Dean and Sam know about.

In the end they stand looking at the dried brown stains on the kitchen floor. Dean is leaning against the kitchen counter, thinking he really, really wants to get so drunk that he passes out. His teeth feel loose in his mouth and every time he moves his head tries to pound its way out of his skull. The light hurts his eyes but looking at Sam hurts worse.

“Why is there so little blood?” Sam says suddenly, he crouches down and stares at the stains as if they would talk to him if he abuses them enough.

Dean covers a yawn with his hand. “I dunno, maybe they have already cleaned up,” but as he says it he sees what Sam has already seen and which should have been obvious to him; had he just not been so tired. He rakes a hand across his head, trying to flatten his unruly hair.

“Na,” Sam says, “Look, it’s obviously not been cleaned and yet there is so little of it. If two grown persons bleed to death as the file said then there should have been loads more.”

“You’re right,” Dean adds, “I guess we are looking for something which drinks blood then?”

“You think genius?” Sam gets up on his feet and dusts his legs of, “Vampire, maybe.” He glares at Dean just because and Dean yawns again, jaw cracking, “Window too small” he says.

Sam sneers and turns to walk out. Dean follows him but stops to look at the brown, crusted stain again before he leave. Two dead, a brother and a sister, he almost has a thought but loses track of it before he can think it through as Sam calls for him to get the move on. He shakes his head and whishes for the hundredth time that he wasn’t so tired.

 

 

  1. **Awakening**



They spend the afternoon in the library, doing research, as Sam calls it. Dean simply waits around while his brother searches the computer and then the micro fiche for old news articles of bloody deaths. They have come up empty so far.

Dean walks in uneasy circles and then seats himself on the most uncomfortable chair he can find, anything to stop himself from falling asleep. He tries at first to face away from Sam but that just makes him worry so in the end he perches on the edge of the chair, on eye keeping a look at his brothers back, the other drifting around the boring interiors.

After shaking himself for the tenth time to stop himself from falling asleep Sam turns to him.

“Why can’t you just go sleep in the car,” he whispers angrily under his breath, because even if Sam is pissed off you just don’t shout in a library.

“I’m fine,” Dean lies and don’t look his brothers in the face.

He can almost hear the anger radiating from Sam, like the air is crackling with static electricity. Sam leans in closer, eyes narrowed and Dean can tell he puts as much spite in his voice as he can, and that hurts some more.

“The hell you are, you pathetic idiot, just leave me to do the work and go phone that retard of a police officer and ask if there is anything new.”

Dean pulls back in pain, surprised that Sam can still hurt him just with the tone of his voice, and a weird sense of shame fills him with a need to run away. He gets up and walks out of the building.

Dean looks up and down the small town street, trees and houses and a few cars out driving in the middle of the day. It is warm today, an oppressive clinging late summer heat. It is like the season refuses to give way to fall, keeping its head high and putting up a last fight.

He moves to a patch of shadow and digs up his mobile phone and the card he’d gotten at the station with Bill’s number on it; his cell not his work number.

The tones beep away and he almost drifts of, jumping when Bill answers, “Dean.”

“How you know it was me?” He asks after he collects himself.

Bill laughs and Dean can practically feel the smile over the phone line, “Not that many people phone me from unknown cell numbers, I made an educated guess.”

Dean nods and asks for news on the case. There are none.

After the phone call Dean sits in the car while Sam finishes up whatever he has to do. He strokes the vinyl on the dash board and tries not to think about anything at all.

 

ooo

 

Later that night they are sitting in a bar, not the roadhouse Dean remembers from his youth, another one. It looks as shabby though. Bill had recommended it. There are very few patrons, two truckers in the back too far off to hear what they are talking about and a lone elderly woman slumping at the bar. She has obviously had too many drinks in her and the bartender had refused her last order when Sam and Dean walked in.

They are sitting in silence, not wanting to talk and Dean not wanting to lose valuable drinking time. He needs to get drunk and fast, anything to take the worst edge off things. Sam is almost keeping up with him, beers going down quickly. Their bad moods are out of sync this night; when one tries to pick a fight the other one doesn’t go for it and the other way around. It leaves them restless and uncertain; at least they normally know how to scream. Fighting is at least acknowledging the other one exist.

Dean looks over at Sam quickly, just to assert that he is still there, haven’t blinked out of existence. Or maybe it is himself who doesn’t exist anymore. He digs his fingers into his leg as hard as he can until the pain makes his eyes fog. He thinks he is still here, still living. He feels like his grip of reality is slipping away, himself sinking deeper and deeper into some dark place. He is on the verge of speaking, of begging Sam to tell him he sees him when the door opens to the bar and Bill steps in.

Bill sees him directly, he smiles, and walks over to their table. Dean smiles back, relived that he is here to break the silent spell. Someone from the land of the living.

“Dean,” Bill says and inclines his head, and Dean nods back.

“…and agent, what was it?” Bill turns to Sam. Sam just looks at him, eyes slightly unfocused the way they get after he has had too many beers. Dean thinks that it’d be good if Sam can remember his name but at the same time not really caring if he does. He would very much want to kill something he thinks and takes a deep drink of his bottle.

“Bloom, Eric,” Sam says at last and Dean sees him stand down, sees the bloodlust he had mirrored himself die down a bit.

“Evening to you both,” Bill says and sits down beside Dean in the booth they occupy.

Dean leans an elbow on the table to try and keep from swaying. They all order a beer each before Bill says,

“Any news? Or have you concluded the same as us?” He is looking at Dean as he speaks, Dean glances at Sam who simply ignores them both.

“Na, nothing yet,” he smiles at Bill, calm, confident, a trust me smile. It might come out a tiny bit lopsided but he doesn’t think Bill notice or care much.

“I told you man, nothing to find there,” he clinks his bottle with Dean’s who shrugs in agreement and says something non-committing about paperwork, bosses, and making sure.

Bill starts a long tale about how he had captured an escaped tiger last year. The story is funny, not bragging and Dean manages to laughs in all the right places. He realizes that he enjoys talking to someone normal. He had forgotten how people are outside his family of two, how you can talk and laugh and have a good time.

He manages a few hunting stories of his own, changing a man eating dog to a puma and some other details. Bill looks impressed and they go on for a while, changing topic from hunting to football and movies none of them have seen but have heard are good. Sam sits quietly, for all purposes like a man drinking alone.

Eventually Bill declines another beer and moves as if it is time to leave.

“Sorry but I have to get up early on the morrow,” he rises, a tiny bit unsteady, from his seat.

Sam turns to face him for the first time since he joined them and says, “Got many hard-ass criminals to catch in this town sheriff?” Dean kicks him lightly under the table; he feels good and doesn’t want Sam to ruin it.

Bill doesn’t take the bait though and laughs as if Sam has made the greatest joke. He turns to Dean and says,

“A word Dean before I go?”

“Sure,” Dean replies and rises to follow. He doesn’t look back, refusing to let Sam’s anger spread to him. Bill goes into the men’s and he follows, the door almost hitting him in the back on the way in. He puts out a hand to stop it and so isn’t prepared.

Bill is on him in an instant, hands hot on his waist and mouth seeking his. Dean takes a step back in surprise; shoulders bumping into tile. Bill comes after, mouth on his, hands fisting the fabric of his shirt. Dean closes his eyes and decides to roll with it. He sticks his tongue into Bill’s mouth, a hand going up to turn his head just so. Bill grinds against him in reply, body undulating against his and Dean lets everything go, he needs this.

Bill is hard and rough, not as smooth as he remembered but hell, he is warm and human and Dean needs to get off. He pulls Bill’s shirt open and pushes his tee up pressing their bare chests against each other and he has to admit for a second as Bill licks his way along his collarbone that that hardness and stubble doesn’t bother him at all.

He grabs the man’s hips and grinds them together feeling Bill’s hard on rub against his and he hisses between his teeth.

“Not getting your needs fulfilled enough of late?” Bill asks him teasingly as he grinds and rubs himself against Dean who is reduced to incoherent breathing. He puts his hands on Bill’s shoulders and tries to guide him downwards, Bill grins at him and bites him hard on his chest, making him wince. He licks the bruise before he sinks down on his knees.

Dean tries to ease his breathing but he is too drunk, too damn hot and horny for it to make any difference. He reaches out with one hand to hold on to the door. A flimsy protection if someone would try to come in but he can’t think of anything else that won’t stop Bill from what he’s doing. He leaves his other hand on the man’s shoulder; holding on to keep steady as Bill opens his pants and pulls him out.

He takes him in all at once, no foreplay and no fooling around and Dean whimpers as he sees Bill swallow him. Bill looks up at him under lowered eyelashes, mouth stretched and Dean has to keep himself in check to last for any decent amount of time.

Bill works him hard, mouth in a firm hold, up and down. It doesn’t take long before Dean takes a grip on the back of his head, burying his fingers in his hair and pushes in as he comes in his mouth. He groans behind his clenched teeth as his body rolls through the orgasm. Bill doesn’t protest as his face is pressed against Dean’s hip and Dean remembers dizzily that he was always very good at this.

As he finishes and the last twitches stills Bill rises to his feet, smooth and gracious. Dean smiles at him weakly, feeling warm and content; the dream had been just a dream, utterly fucked up like dreams sometimes are. Here he is, having sex with someone whom he is definitely not related to.

Bill kisses him and Dean can taste himself, salt and musk. He kisses him back and fumbles for Bill’s fly. He opens it as Bill kisses him deeper. In his underwear Bill is rock hard and straining. Dean grabs and pushes him until he is trapped firmly between their bare stomachs. They move together kissing and grinding as Bill’s dick slides between them until Bill gasps and bites down on Dean’s lower lip. Dean holds him in a one-armed embrace pressed against him until the man breaths normally again.

“Fuck, that was…unexpected,” He says, voice almost holding steady.

Bill raises his head from where it is resting on Dean’s shoulder and grins; the same gleaming smile Dean remembers, “Unexpectedly great you mean.”

Dean snorts but nods anyway at the cheesy line.

“Yeah that to,” he says.

“I didn’t plan it really, not a good idea to sexually assault a fed. You never know where that would lead,” he jokes as they disentangle and put themselves back together.

“I promise to not press charges,” Dean smiles.

Bill looks at him sideways, “For old times’ sake,” he says.

 

 

  1. **Dissent**



They walk out back into the bar, Dean trailing behind Bill and unable to shake the feeling that he is doing the walk of shame. Sam is sitting slumped down in the booth where they had left him, one hand tearing at the label on his beer bottle, small pieces of paper already scattered in front of him. Bill, back as straight as ever like nothing has happened, walks up to the table and clasps a tough hand down on Sam’s shoulder. Dean can see Sam jumping and Dean wonders how wasted Sam is if Bill can sneak up on him like that.

“You’re not falling asleep are you Eric,” Bill says.

“Agent Bloom to you,” Sam replies, ice in his voice as he glares up at Bill from under his bangs.

Bill lets go of Sam’s shoulder and grabs his hat from the table, pulling it on and hooking his thumb inside his belt loop, “If you say so, Agent,” His lips curve upwards as if he wants to smile but is stopping himself.

“Anyway,” He turns back to Dean, letting an actual smile play across his lips, “I got to go, early day tomorrow, but I guess I’ll see you around.” Dean nods and promises they will check in to the station the next day. Bill tips his hat to Sam who just mutters something under his breath, sipping on his beer. He clasps Dean’s upper arm, hot fingers curling around muscles and squeezes for a second before he turns and leaves, shouting, “By Lem, you take care,” at the barkeep on his way out.

Dean sits down in his seat opposite his brother, grabbing his own beer and takes a deep swallow, it is tepid and flat but it rinses his mouth out.

“Fucking jerk,” Sam mutters under his breath at Bill’s back.

“And by the way, what the hell took you so long,” Sam glares at him, “Did you have to hold hands while pissing or what?”

Dean’s brain is still muddled with beer and everything has a post coitus sheen to it. He is too slow to come up with something, trying out things to say in his head before saying them and Sam’s eyes goes all wide and his jaw almost drops open like it was some fucking comedy show. It makes Dean freeze up, surely Sam does not think…, but then Sam was always smarter than you would believe. Dean tries to think of something but everything sounds like hollow lies in his head.

“Dean you didn’t do anything stupid did you?” Sam asks and Dean can’t place the tone in Sam’s voice, he sounds all small or something. Dean can only think of how his mouth must look, lower lip still swollen where Bill had bit him, an involuntary blush creeps up on his cheek. Him Dean blushing, what is the world coming to, he thinks feeling absolutely mortified.

Sam’s face goes all white and Dean thinks for a second that the shock is going to kill them both.

“Did you fuck him?” Sam asks, voice flat and carefully neutral, as if he is asking if Dean is enjoying his beer.

“Oh my god Sam, keep your voice down,” Dean says, “Of course I didn’t, don’t be stupid,” he covers the lie with finishing his beer; glancing around carefully to make sure no one heard them.

“You’re lying, you did, no wonder Bill looked so bloody smug,” Sam sneers at that, mouth turning an ugly shape, “What the fuck Dean, you so desperate to get laid you have to jump not only every girl that moves but every guy as well?”

Dean shakes his head, anger welling up in him; it is just too screwed up for him, talking about this with his brother after everything, “I do not fuck everything that moves and you know it. Besides it was hardly fucking and only for old time’s sake.”  The second he spits it out, anger fueled by the contempt on Sam’s face he knows it is the wrong thing to say. Sam goes all stiff and just stares at him. Fuck, fuck, fuck, Dean thinks, a mantra going round and round in his head. Did he just say that; admit to him and Bill having a history.

Sam stares at him; eyes going pitch black and Dean thinks Sam scares the hell out of him when he gets this angry.

“You are the scum of the earth brother of mine,” Sam hisses under his breath. Then he gets up and leaves without a backwards glance at Dean.

Dean sits in stumped silence and stares blankly ahead, wondering what had just happened.

“Can I get you anything else?” Dean flinches as the bartender suddenly stands by his shoulder.

“Yeah, another beer sure.”

Dean leans back in his booth and wonders where everything went wrong. He rubs his eyes with his palms until he sees stars. He can’t even rightly grasp why Sam is so angry with him, it is hardly the guy thing. Sam prides himself in being a totally open minded geek towards other people’s life styles so this should be nothing. He sips his beer thinking that somewhere he screwed up again; if he could just find the place he could maybe make things alright again.

 

ooo

 

When Dean wakes up the next day his head is pounding like a steam train and his eyes are filled with crushed glass. He has a second before he wakes up when everything hangs in the balance, before he remember the day before, that Sam hates him and that his father is dead. Then it all comes crashing in and he has to get up on his feet and run to the toilet where everything he has ever eaten since he was five tries to make a simultaneous evacuation.

He lies on the white tiles for a while afterwards, hugging his knees and wondering who he’d pissed off to get the shitty life he has. After a while his self-pity dies down to its usual level and he can breathe again. He is still alive and he can fix things with Sam. He doesn’t really regret yesterday, it had been unplanned and perhaps unwise but since when was his decisions anything but?

He rises carefully and walks out into the main room. It is empty. For a second he can feel the beginning of a true panic attack settling on him. His vision narrows and he can distantly hear his breathing coming in pained wheezes. Then his higher brain function kicks in and tells him Sam’s things are still here, his laptop is standing on the small table by the window. His brother has not left for good.

He sits down heavily on the bed, resting his spinning head in his hands. He tries to calm down but that last edge of gut wrenching terror won’t leave. Sam is all he has; he cannot make it without him. He rises to get dressed and vows then and there to try harder to make things right. He ignores the tiny voice in the back of his head that is trying to tell him it is too little, too late.

 

ooo

 

He finds Sam an hour later at the diner they had been at the other day. He sees the Impala first, black body shining in the sun like molten stone. He drags a hand across the hood as he walks by, taking courage and strength from the only home he has ever known.

He slides into the booth across from Sam. His brother is reading the newspaper, head bent down low, his hair hanging over his eyes so Dean can’t look at him. He doesn’t say anything but Dean can tell from the slight tensing in his shoulders that he knows he is there.

He orders some bacon, eggs, toast, and coffee from the waitress. He can’t smile at her even when he tries, his mouth tastes like something has crawled up and died in it and his body feels frail, on the edge of breaking. Like he is made of cloth and someone is stretching him out, further and further, until eventually he will tear down the middle.

He eats in silence, trying to gather strength. Sam works his way through the local and then the regional newspaper, never glancing up at him. Eventually he cannot put it up longer. He pushes his empty plate to the side and takes a deep breath.

“Sam,” he says.

His brother doesn’t react so he says it with a bit more force, “Sam.”

Still no reaction, he places a hand on the newspaper and says, “Sammy, look at me please.”

Sam turns his head up and Dean has steeled himself for anger, scorn, and perhaps even hatred. He is not prepared for despair however. Sam’s eyes are red and looks almost bruised as if he has rubbed them hard Dean thinks absently. He drops his long planned speech as Sam looks at him with something close to longing.

“I’m sorry,” he says automatically, anything to make Sam stop looking like that.

“For what?” Sam says, not angrily, just confused and his voice holds nothing of the hard edges Dean has become used to.

“Eh, for you know…” he squirms in his seat; he is not going to say it in a diner, in the middle of the day. He continues, “…for the thing, with Bill.”

“Oh,” Sam says. He looks down and then up again and says “Oh,” again. Dean doesn’t know what to do, angry Sam he can almost live with, this Sam he can most definitely not.

“Can you,” he starts his voice almost failing, “forgive me?”

Sam looks at him and Dean feels like he sees something die in Sam’s eyes, a light that he had not even realized was there.

Sam looks away out the window and shakes his shoulders absently. Dean takes it and in all the confusion and guilt, which he does not even know why he is feeling, he hopes desperately that it means that they will be alright.

 

 

  1. **Realizations**



Dean is sitting in the car, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel out of tune to the music. He feels out of sync with the world. One half-step behind everyone else; it leaves him feeling surreal. There is something he should understand, he knows that. He just doesn’t know what.

He is in his FBI personality, donned like the suit and tie. His badge does not match his name and Bill knows his real name, so he sits in the car while Sam does the round among the dead siblings’ neighbors.

As the tape comes to its end he sees Sam coming out of a white painted house with flowers in front, the same as all the others. He walks up to the Impala and sits down in his regular seat and shakes his head, he does not look at Dean.

Dean starts the car and revs the engine perhaps more than is necessary. He asks, “Where to?”

Sam pulls two fingers inside the collar and tugs outwards, trying to loosen the tight fit of the shirt and tie. He looks professional and the dark suit looks good on him but Dean knows he finds the clothes constricting.

“Tammy worked in a small shop next to that all night gas station outside of town. We could try there,” Sam says at last at the glove compartment.

Dean nods and turns the car in a sharp U-turn on the small residential street. He miscalculates and the turntable of the Impala is too large for the space available. He runs up the curb and into a mailbox, the white pole bends and stops at an acute angle. The noise as it scratches the side of the car is the sound of flesh tearing, of bones breaking. Dean feels it like it’s his own body that breaks.

There is a second of complete silence, of blank whiteness where all sound is blocked out and time stops and Dean floats in the middle. Then as suddenly as it stopped, time starts again and it seems like it moves in double speed, trying to catch up to itself.

Dean is instantly filled with blinding rage; it is red and all consuming and aimed solely at his brother. Because this is his fault, for pushing Dean away, making him lag behind reality. As they turn completely and the horrid scratching noise goes away Sam actually turns to look at him, something that could be pity in his eyes.

Dean feels the anger escaping him, bubbling up inside until he cannot contain it and it comes out all bent and hideous looking.

“This is your fault! He shouts at Sam and in the moment he cannot see that the logic is off.

“My fault?” Says Sam, sounding taken aback.

“Yes you,” Dean rages, “You never talk to me anymore. You shut me out and now you have broken my car.”

Sam’s mouth closes. He seems to realize that it is not about the car, the torn Impala is just a sign, a manifestation of Dean’s soul.

“You want me to talk to you?”

The air goes out of Dean like a deflated balloon and he finds himself begging, “Yes, please,” voice pleading.

He can see Sam fidgeting with the seam of his jeans, running his thumb up the side. He seems on the brink of opening his moth and Dean leans forward, all anger washed away as hope instead replaces it.

“Why him?”

Dean does not doubt whom Sam is talking about.

He shrugs his shoulders, “I dunno,” he says honestly, because he does not. This is not something he has thought about. It just happened. He tells Sam as much.

Sam does not seem surprised, he simply nods. Dean waits, he does not want to frighten the moment.

“I thought maybe…” Sam starts, but then trails of.

“Sammy,” Dean says, wanting to urge him on.

 Sam looks up at Dean, looks at him for real, for the first time in months. Dean can see that same burning in his eyes again and he realizes he has seen it before, the months leading up to Sam leaving him for Stanford.

He holds his breath, fear rolling in suffocating waves through him as he realizes he has seen this for a while now, just he hasn’t wanted to acknowledge it. This is why he was so afraid this morning.

Sam looks at him intently and he leans forward towards his brother one hand reaching out and Dean panics, he can’t help himself, he blurts out.

“Don’t leave me again.”

Sam stops inches from Dean, pain and fear replacing the look in his eyes that Dean can’t, or rather won’t, understand and Sam bolts. He turns and opens the door and takes off down the street, hands in his suit pockets, long legs almost running.

Dean sees him go in the rearview mirror. He is not doing anything to stop him even though the street continues straight on and he sees Sam’s back for a long time before it disappears over a ridge.

He sits in the car paled and shocked, trying desperately to banish the ludicrous idea that his brother had just tried to kiss him.

 

ooo

 

Dean allows the door to ping closed behind. The shop is small and gives the grubby impression of years of uncleaned dust in the corners. A girl is shelving canned goods in the back; she glances up at him and then returns to her beans and tomatoes.

He grabs a basket and puts some random items in it, a bottle of scotch being not so random. He makes his way along the aisles slowly closing in on the working girl. As he walks he makes sure he bumps into things or makes some small sound so she will hear him coming and be accustomed to his presence.

As he reaches her he coughs politely and reaches for a can of beans. She turns and hands him one absently.

“Thank you,” he says and turns on his most radiant smile. She starts to instinctively smile back then seems to notice his suit and stops. She fidgets with the cardboard box, now almost empty. She looks over her shoulders as if trying to decide if they are alone or not. Then she speaks.

“Are you the detective trying to catch whoever killed Tammy?”

Dean is not surprised the news is already out, in a town of this size, not strange at all.

“Yes, yes I am,” he nods at her, “We are doing all we can,” he assures her in his most official voice.

The girl looks at him and then suddenly bursts into tears, shoulders shaking from great hulking sobs. Dean is left standing awkwardly with a can of beans in his hand, not having a clue of what to do and whishing desperately that Sam was here.

 

 

  1. **Point of no return**



Dean is sitting by the small table in the motel room, eyes focused on the walkway outside. It is still warm even though the sun has been down for hours and this time of year it should be pleasantly cool. A glass of amber scotch is resting in hand, ice long since melted away. He poured it hours ago and then forgot to drink it.

He is trying to think about what Amy, Tammy’s friend, had told him after she had calmed down. It had not been that many new things really, just some things about the siblings. Yet it wormed inside of him as if it was something he should see when he looked at it.

Amy had been a friend of Tammy their whole lives, living close when they were kids and after she had moved to the other side of town they had continued to the best of friends. She had told him how Tammy and Johannes’s dad had died in a car accident when they were young and how their mother had broken down. Life had not been that easy afterwards, the mother angry all the time, blaming the kids for their father’s death. Last year the mother had died in cancer.

Amy said that the siblings, while sad over their mother’s death, had been relieved that they could live in peace. They had always been extraordinary close and Amy had always been happy that Tammy had a brother like that. That was all, nothing supernatural or odd in the Clayton’s lives, not any more tragic than so many other stories you could read every day it the newspapers. Yet, Dean feels as if there is something in the story that should worry him.

Whenever he thinks he has it his eyes wanders out the window and he starts to worry about Sam all over again, anything else blown away.

His brother is not answering his phone, in itself not that unusual when he his pissed off with Dean, but Dean, as always, worries anyway.

He is busily contemplating taking the car and driving up and down town, looking for Sam even though he knows Sam will hate him for it when he sees his brother’s figure coming up the path outside.

He hasn’t turned the light on in the room so he doesn’t think Sam can see him sitting inside watching him. Sam’s gait is unsteady as if has been drinking again, which he probably has. He stops outside their door, hands going up to his head, fingers dragging through his hair. It is already standing in all directions as if Sam has been doing this all night. There is something frantic about how he moves, all sharp turns and angles.

Dean sees him turn away as if he has changed his mind over coming inside but before Dean can go out and get him he turns back and Dean can see him swearing at the door. Sam stares straight in front of him and hugs himself tight as if bracing himself.

Dean can see his brother’s face in the sodium light from the road behind. It looks unsure and unguarded now that he thinks he is alone. There is doubt and fear but also determination in his eyes and Dean decides to swallow the anger that has risen inside of him after he stopped being afraid something had happened to Sam.

Then Sam swallows, tries to push his hair out of his eyes yet again and rubs his hand on the leg of his jeans as if he is nervous and his palms are sweaty. He reaches for the door knob. Dean gets up from his chair and opens the door at the same time as Sam does.

His brother looks surprised as the door swings open, reaction time dulled by drink and he steadies himself on the door frame.

“Hi,” he says as if trying the word out.

“Hi,” Dean says and moves so Sam can come inside. Sam looks relieved that Dean is not shouting at him and it is as if it gives him courage. He comes inside and Dean closes the door behind him, he leans against it, arms hanging down his sides. He tries for unthreatening and relaxed.

Sam turns to him and just looks at him. He is even drunker than Dean had first seen and the dark burning in his eyes is there, naked and unhidden as he looks at him.

Dean finds himself squirming under Sam’s gaze, a blush creeping up his neck under the intense scrutiny. If he hadn’t been so relieved that Sam was back, still so utterly tired from running from his brother and himself for such a long time he would have done something. He realizes suddenly that he always did something whenever Sam looked at him like this, has been doing something for years. Before Stanford especially.

Now however, he does nothing and Sam acts instead, for once not stopped by his brother’s fear or survival instinct.

Before he knows it Sam is on him, wet mouth at his throat and big hands pressing, palms open, against him. Dean shudders, a full body shiver that Sam can feel as it travels though him, and then he panics and shoves hard against his brother.

Sam is drunk and not as balanced as he would be otherwise and he falls back and sits down on the edge of the bed. He looks bewildered for a second and then utterly devastated.

“So you can do him, but me you won’t touch,” he says, mouth making the shapes but it comes out blurred. Then he shakes his head, like a wet dog and seems to come to his senses. He looks ashamed and disgusted by himself.

“You have to let me go,” Sam says and looks pleadingly at Dean.

“You can’t keep me with you, it will destroy us both,” He adds, begging Dean to understand him, to acknowledge that they are breaking each other.

“Please just let me go, I cannot do this, be like this,” he says with a broken voice and let himself fall backwards.

Sam lies still, his back on the bed, legs hanging limp over the edge and eyes screwed shut and a look of pain travels across his face. He lies there all broken and used looking, mouth wet and shirt pulled up revealing a band of pale skin just above the waistband of his jeans.

Dean turns and grabs his keys as he leaves the scene behind him, aiming for the Impala and the emptiness of the night roads. He knows he will be back before dawn just as he knows he simply wants to see how far he can drive until he has to turn around again. He guns the engine, the roar of his car comforting him, the black band of highway calming him down and smoothing out the creases on his soul. He will just drive through the night not looking back and in the light of dawn all this will be forgotten.

Dean snaps back from his fantasy, he is not in the car driving, he just wishes he was and a sense of regret fills him until he might burst. He is still standing in this crappy motel room looking at Sam on the bed, unable to tear his eyes away. If he had been a better man he would have been in the car right now, leaving his brother to his life, letting him go, but he isn’t.

He is just Dean and yesterday he had his dick sucked off in a toilet. He is Dean and he cannot live without his brother. Right now he can’t stop looking at Sam on his back, arm slung across his face as if to hide his shame and without him knowing how he got there Dean is by the bed, fisting the fabric of Sam’s shirt and pulling it up all the way.

In a different universe, he thinks absently, another Dean did the right thing and walked out the door, leaving his brother. In  this one though, heat and guilt and an unbelievable need to keep his brother with him in an undetermined mix rushes through Dean as he bends with on knee on the bed, left hand stroking skin and Sam moans and the Dean of this universe is truly and utterly lost.

His hands shake slightly as it travels across Sam’s stomach, callused fingers dragging over muscles and old scares. He has been there for every one of those and he can read his own history as well as Sam’s in the lines they make. Sam isn’t moving and he keeps his arm over his face, Dean is somewhat glad for it, don’t think he can look his brother in the eyes right now.

His right hand is gripping Sam’s hip and he holds on so hard he will probably leave bruises.  He is shaking all over now, little shivers traveling over his body and he just can’t stop. He flips open Sam’s fly and uses both hands to pull his pants and underwear down in one motion, Sam lifts his hips off the bed to help him. Dean drops down to his knees on the floor so fast his knees hurt as they hit carpet, for a second he just looks at Sam lying almost naked in front of him, dick swollen and slightly crocked and it’s the most beautiful thing he has seen in a long while.

He takes Sam in his mouth, carefully at first and then more forcefully as Sam does not protest or push him of; hands on hips holding Sam down as he works. Sam twists and pants under him, mumbling incoherent things under his breath, trying to make Dean go faster, harder. Dean just keeps the pace looking up at Sam, at the thin layer of sweat covering his skin making it shine and his own jeans feel intolerable tight. He can’t really breath but it is ok, he doesn’t need air anymore, he’s got this.

And Sam is coming, his body twisting, muscles in his stomach cramping hard and he says Dean’s name, just, “Dean,” all torn and broken and breathless, it shatters Dean completely.  He is breathing so hard it hurts and shoves a hand down his own pants and jerks of in three quick strokes, his head buried in the crock of Sam’s hip, face pressed down smelling Sam and sex and he bites the skin trying to keep quiet as he shudders and comes inside his own clothes.

For a minute he stays there, neither of them moves and Dean wishes he had superpowers so he could freeze time like this, forever stuck in this moment and never having to leave it. His bad leg starts to cramp pretty fast though and he has to get up; breaking the stillness. He looks down on Sam who is looking back up at him and he just can’t stand it, meeting his eyes while guilt so bad it is suffocating him coarse through him. His stomach twist and turns and he think he has to go or throw up where he stands.

He can feel Sam’s eyes burning a hole in the back of his head and imagines Sam reaching out for him as he flees into the bathroom, he locks the door behind him and is finally able to breathe again. He slides down the wall, back against the cool tiles and sits on the floor, hands covering his face. He has finally crossed some last line he thinks, he has screwed up so bad there is no way of undoing it and he has dragged his brother down with him.

 

 

  1. **Doubt**



Dean wakes up sometime after sunrise. His back hurts from sleeping on the bathroom floor, the room is too small and in his sleep he has cramped up around the toilet bowl. He sits up and tries to decide what woke him.

His jeans vibrate and he slowly manages to get up on his feet, one hand to the wall to steady himself as he fish his phone out of his pocket. He rubs his eyes and focuses on the small screen, two new text messages. They are both from Bill.

_You awake?_  The first one reads.

_I’m having breakfast at Rosies, met me. Got news on case…_

He types in a quick reply, _on my way._ Then he pockets his phone.

He piss and washes his hands, he can’t avoid looking in the mirror as he does so. He stops in amazement. He looks normal, just like he always does just after waking up after a bad night’s sleep.

He shakes his head, “That can’t be right”, he mumbles to himself. He tries to feel anything about it, but there is nothing, only numbness throughout. He pinches his cheek, drags the skin out wondering if it will come off, if he is a shape shifter without knowing it. It doesn’t.

He meets his own eyes, then averts his gaze. He is some kind of monster that’s for sure he thinks and again he feels nothing about that. He realizes then why he feels so weird, there is no guilt. Without it he feels almost naked, not himself. He pokes at the drain in the sink which seems to have clogged, water a weird pinkish color but he gives it up when nothing happens.

He walks out into the room, not caring if Sam is there or not. His brother is sleeping in his bed, head buried under a pillow, chest rising slowly. Dean turns his back and walks out, a strange cottony feel to himself. He does not think, he simply walks away. A strange finality to it, as if he is not coming back.

 

ooo

 

He walks over to Rosie’s, it’s not far, he has driven past the place several times. The day is already too warm even though it is early as hell. He walks in a brisk pace not thinking, focusing on the empty space in his chest.

Inside he spots Bill, he orders at the counter and goes to sit down.

“Here,” Bill hands a couple of papers over to him, “Look at his,” he says and shakes his head.

He looks intently at Dean as he takes the papers, “What is it?” Dean asks.

“The pathology report,” Bill says, “And you’re not going to believe what them big city people think.”

Dean sets down to read, after half a page of absolute gibberish and medical terms his breakfast comes to the table, he grabs a toast and eats it as he reads, even though he’s not understanding anything. It dawns on him that a real fed should get all this. A real fed should not constantly let his brother do these things for him.

He looks up at Bill who is studying him, and Dean think it might be doubt in his eyes, He smiles confidently and turns his eyes back to the papers, I am so screwed, he thinks.

He skims the rest hoping for something that sticks out, something he recognizes among this wall of incomprehensible text. Then there is something and he puts his coffee down abruptly, it spills over his hand and scalds him. He pulls his hand back and swears as he shakes the warm coffee off.

“You ok?” Bill asks.

Dean ignores the question. He looks at Bill with a growing sense of dread in the pit of his stomach.

“Is this actually true?” He says and points at one of the very last paragraphs.

Bill leans over the table to read it.

“Yeah, it seems so, we did wonder why there was so little blood at the sight, but this…” he stops as Dean interrupts him with a string of the worst words he can think of.

“… and bloody hell’s crap,” he finishes.

“We assumed the animal had fucking drunk the blood,” he says at last, trying to fit the pieces in his head together, he almost has it he knows it.

Bill pales visibly across the table, “Drank the blood? And you did not think about telling me?”

“No point now, since it obviously coagulated in their veins, only fucking ghosts does that,” Dean mumbles to himself, turning the last pieces of the puzzle over trying to force them to fit.

He suddenly realizes he has his dad’s journal in his pocket, he pulls it out and with shaking hands opens it in the middle and then turns it way back, years back in fact. To a time when he was around 17 and Sam had a broken arm.

“What’ that?” Bill asks and Dean is so in the zone that he forgets himself, he needs to narrate this to understand it for himself.

“My dad’s journal. He wrote down all kinds of shit in it. Somewhere I know there is an entry about the time we lived here. I remember him saying that, about the blood boiling in their veins,” He flickered through the pages trying to the find the right one and as he speaks it all comes back to him. “It was some girls that had died,” he says and then he finds the entry.

His dad had been sitting up late in the sofa, drinking, and Dean had woken for no apparent reason. Eyes wide open and staring at the mutating water stain in the celling. He had walked out to the living room and found John emptying the last of a bottle of clear vodka in a glass, hands shaking slightly. He didn’t bother going back to his room, he knew his dad would need help back to bed and he hated the look Sam got on his face whenever he found John passed out on the sofa, or the floor.

“Dean, m’boy,” His dad raised his glass to him and downed the last in one go.

Dean sat on the edge of the sofa and hid a yawn behind his hand.

“Bedtime dad?” he asked.

John looked at the empty bottle and mumbled something Dean took as an acquisition. He stood up and grabbed one of John’s arms and put it over his shoulder and pulled him up, it was not as hard as it used to be, he had grown into his body in the last year.

John followed him along, leaning heavily on his shoulders and mumbling all the time. Dean only caught little pieces of it as he maneuvered them around the furniture.

“Boiled their fucking blood. Just two girls. Hardly grown yet. Put him away, hope never come back. Demon bitches.”

 

ooo

 

“Dean?” Dean shakes awake and sees Bill’s hand waving in front of him and he returns to the present.

“Bill, do you remember some time before I came to town, the first time I mean, any girls getting killed, and killed in the same way?”

“What you mean?” Bill asks and Dean can tell he is not making sense of anything.

“Just tell me, try to remember and I will explain.”

Bill looks at him but gets his phone from his jacket and dials.

“Hey Barb. Just fine thanks, and you? Good, good. I have a question for you.”

Dean zones out for the rest of the one sided conversation and finishes his breakfast. He feels solid, the heightening levels of adrenalin making him shift into focus. He thinks of the case, thinking that if he is right then they have it and they can leave this place behind. He has a purpose again, kill bad thing, then fix his own mess. He is not sure what fixing entails and he refuses to think of it. He cannot think about his certainty that he has to leave his brother to pay for what he had done. He stops his train of thought there, simply repeating item one and two on his agenda over and over again as he scrapes the last egg from his plate.

 “Fuck,” Bill says with emphasis and Dean realizes that this is the first time he has ever heard Bill Pearlman, upstanding officer, swear.

“Was I right?” He asks, placing his knife and fork away.

Bill scratches the stubble on his chin and looks at Dean, he looks ragged at the edges Dean thinks.

“How did you know?” Bill says, “You were right, two girls. Barb remembers it clearly, not from here though.” He says waving his hand around meaning the town. “One town over, Barb says maybe 10 years ago or so this guy, good, normal guy just breaks. He kills his wife with an axe and electrocutes his two daughters in the bath with a toaster. Their blood boiled in their veins…”

“What happened to him?

Bill continues, “He got sentences to care, some sort of medical facility. He swore he had not done it, that he remember nothing of it. He died two months ago though, was out on parole, first time since then, just walked in front of a truck the first thing he did, right outside here in this town and all.”

Dean raises a hand, a chill suddenly running down his spine and a feeling of dread at having his suspicions come true spreading ice in his stomach.

“Died? How was he buried, cremated?”

“Yeah dead and I think cremated.” Bill says.

“All of him?” Dean says and fights the swaying feeling that the world is making, whishing Bill to talk faster.

 “No,” Bill shakes his head, “Or what was left of him was cremated, as I said he got run over by a truck and there was, eh, bits of him everywhere. We flushed a lot down the sewers. There was not much we could do really.”

“So his remains are in the sewers all over town now.” Dean says shocked at the ignorance of people.

“Ehrm, yeah if you want to think of it like that, but what does it matter?”

A realization dawns on Dean, “He came through the sewers not the window.” He is silent for a micro second and suddenly he realizes what has been bothering him from the start.

“Fuck,” Dean says and, “Sisters, did you say sisters?” but he knew that’s what Bill had said and he has remembered the clogged drain at the Clayton’s house and at the motel this morning and he is already running.

He takes the diner in three steps and then he is out the door, running for his life down the road. He doesn’t realize Bill is running behind him, he does not see anything but the rapidly nearing door of his motel room. Only one thing is running in his mind, Sam, Sam, Sam, Sam.

He crashes into the door at ful speed, teeth yarring at the impact, but it does not move. He shakes it and bangs at it, and then tries to kick it, but it might as well have been a bank vault door made from three foot of hardened steel. His leg hurts and he bites his tongue, the taste of iron sharp in his mouth.

“Sam,” he shouts and hits the glass of the window full on with his fist, nothing happens. It is solid as stone and inside it is dark, way to dark and he can’t see a thing.

Bill is behind him, trying to calm him down but he is not listening. He takes a breath and tries not to be swallowed by the bottomless pit of darkness inside him.

 

  1. **Saving grace**



“Move!” Bill shouts and Dean, working on pure reflexes, dives to the ground; some bit of training from his childhood so deeply entrenched in him that he reacts without thought.

He can see Bill with a gun in his hand, he aims at the door handle and Dean wants to stop him, tell him Sam is inside but Bill fires an entire clip into the door, shot after shot echoing across the parking lot. Dean’s ears are ringing and he can feel the impact in his body.

At the 14th shot, Dean counts every single one, the door gives way and breaks into tiny splinters of reconstituted wood, whatever force holding the door together finally gone.

Dean is up and running before the pieces has stopped falling, he lunges for the opening and is just in time to see Sam pumping the sawed off shotgun and blasting at a shadow in front of him. His face is screwed up with anger and he has a red bruise on the side of his cheek.

Dean can’t hear the shotgun go off, ears still ringing, but he sees the effect as the shadow shatters into tiny rivulets of smoke and crawls back across the floor into the toilet, the door is hanging on a hinge and he sees the mother fucker slink down the drain.

 

Afterwards the room is dead quiet. Sam has lowered his weapon and is panting slightly, eyes lit and a flush across his neck and Dean has never seen a more beautiful thing. He knows he is staring but can’t do anything about it.

Sam turns to look at him and Dean can see his own relief mirrored in his brother’s face.

“What the almighty was that?”

Dean regretfully breaks eye contact with Sam and turns to Bill.

“That was a poltergeist,” he says.

Bill look at him with dumb eyes and Dean is about to explain that they have to run like hell now, a gun fight like this will draw the police. Then he realizes that, oh yeah, Bill _is_ the police.

“Get the people away and I’ll tell you all about it,” he says and turns back to Sam who is looking at him, meeting his eyes and not looking away and Dean feels all kinds of good.

 

ooo

 

“But there are no such things as ghosts,” Bill says exasperated.

Sam snorts and shakes his head, he is sitting at a small table reading their dad’s diary in a motel room next door to their old one. Bill had managed to sort everything out in a few minutes with calm words, without hardly lying and Dean be damned if that was something he could have done himself. Dean had briefed Sam in the meantime and they had moved their stuff.

“Look, I know this doesn’t make sense to you, but believe me there _are_ such things as ghosts,” Dean says.

“Well, he is right on one point though,” Sam amends, “It doesn’t really make sense. Dad exorcised a demon, not a ghost.”

Bill, sits down heavily on the bed, “Demons too?” he asks with a weak voice.

Dean shrugs apologetic, “Sorry man.”

“And you, you hunt them?” He looks at Dean as he says it, like he is seeing him for the first time and not sure if he likes what he sees.

“Yep, always has, dad as well,” Dean replies.

“I guess you are no federal agents then?” Bill says surly.

“Ah, not so much, no,” Dean smiles for all he is worth.

Sam taps the table trying to get attention, “Can we focus on the case please? That mother fucker tried to kill me!”

Dean turns to Sam and forgets all about Bill. Sam is fine, alive and looking at him. He smiles and then he explains.

“I think it was a demon, and dad exorcised it, but the guy lived and then the police put him away for killing his family. Likely he eventually believed that he had killed his daughters and wife and once he had a chance he killed himself and now his ghost has gone bonkers and are set for killing siblings.”

Sam nods all through Dean’s monologue, “Yeah that makes sense, poor dude.” He adds because Sam is soft like that.

“Siblings,” Bill breaks in, “Then you are Dean’s brother?” He looks at them a bit strangely and Dean nods.

“Yeah, the job, it sort of runs in the family.”

“Oh, I thought…” Bill stops and gives himself a shake. Dean and Sam are both looking at him, wondering what will happen. He looks at them each in turn.

“So what do we do? No ghost has the right to come to my town and kill my people,” Bill gets up and Dean is momentarily impressed, most civilians would be running and crying by now.

“I dunno,” Dean says and looks at Sam.

Sam smiles and it is like he is five years old again and Dean has gotten hold of some fireworks for him to blow up.

“I think I have an idea.”

 

ooo

 

They crash into the police station through the back door, shotguns raised and holy water clutched awkwardly. They are met only by silence and dust flecks floating in the uneven light streaming in thorough a dirt crusted sky light. It is evening and the station is empty, they had holed up in the motel for the day, eating take away and making plans.

Dean had not yet been alone with his brother and he is somewhat glad, he has no idea what he should say, or do for that matter. He has given up all ideas about running; it is his job to look after Sam, to keep him alive. He cannot do that if he is not there. He knows he is a monster, but at least he knows what kind. Then there is that thing, Sam is talking to him again and he has no idea what to do with it.

Bill dumps them in a small briefing room and leaves for the gun safe behind his office. Dean takes up a position by the window and puts his gun beside him, where he can reach it easy if he needs it.

He keeps looking out the window, one finger holding the curtains apart enough so he can see the open space outside up to the tree line. He doesn’t really think it will come after them like this, but he wants to keep busy.

He can hear Sam shuffle impatiently behind him and it is all soothing, normal sounds. We will be ok, he thinks for the millionth time, not sure if he is talking about the monster out there trying to kill them or the other thing.

“Dean,” Sam says.

Dean hums in response.

“Do you think this…, are we actually saving people or just making things worse?” Sam sounds calm, slightly curious but nothing else.

Dean turns sharply from the window, “Why would you say that?”

Sam shrugs, unruly hair falling down in his eyes and he flicks it back with a shake of head.

“It’s just, this thing here. Dad failed, his mistake that the guy started to believe he had done it and…” He trails of. Not that he has to finish, Dean knows exactly how he feels.

“Dad didn’t have you with him,” Dean says and he means it truly.

Sam looks at him oddly, “What is that supposed to mean?”

Dean continues fast, before the temporary truce between them is rescinded, “That you are a better hunter than dad ever was.” He is honest as he has ever been, he respected his dad as much as it was possible to respect someone, but Sam is something else. He is Sam for god’s sake and there is no one else he would rather have at his back, bad moods and all, he’d pick him first any day.

Sam is looking at him with true shook in his face but he can read Dean like a book and he can see that he means it.

And then Sam laughs. A happy little laugh in the front of his mouth and he comes up to Dean and lays his hands on his brother.

Sam is standing way too close, hands pressed flat against his shoulders. Dean can feel the warmth of his uneven breath on his lips. Then Sam is kissing him, like it is their last day on earth, lips hot and soft and Dean is kissing him back.

He couldn’t have explained it at gun point, it is just too weird but he feels like his sense of right and wrong, up and down has all gone out the window. Sam is the only thing left, the only thing he knows exits.

They open for each other, mouths wide and needy and Dean has a hand up Sam’s shirt, feeling the smooth expanses of his back, the ridges of muscles and soft lines of old, healed scars. He presses close and he knows he is making a fool of himself, but he can’t stop. Sam grabs the side of his head and places small, open mouthed kisses all over his face and Dean is quickly loosing it.

Then Sam is pulling back leaving Dean dazed and confused. He looks at Sam and it takes all he has not to launch himself at him, but he can hear what Sam must have heard, Bill coming back.

Dean shakes his head in an attempt at clearing it and he sees Sam looking at him. Arms straight down and this open, vulnerable look on his face and it just kill Dean. Just when he is about to say something Sam turns towards Bill.

Bill is lugging two large petrol cans and has no less than four shotguns over his shoulder.

“Good,” Sam says and grabs a can and gives it a testing shake, it is full.

“I can’t believe we are doing this,” Dean scratches his head.

“What, it is a great plan,” Sam says smiling triumphantly

“You call torching the sewers a plan?”

“Only the bit around where he died, there is probably something there that’s keeping him. We scare him up and then torch every little bit around that place,” Sam dosen't even try to look apologetic.

Dean grabs the other can of gas and lets Bill take care of the shotguns instead.

“So this plan means I have to crawl through a sewer? Again?” Dean winches at the thought, “I fucking hate sewers.”

Sam is grinning at him like an idiot, still talking to him, still here and Dean thinks that sewers are maybe not so bad.

Dean grins, “Let’s go kill ourselves a ghost.”

 

 

  1. **Spelunking**



“Mother fucker,” Dean says as sewage water sloshes over the edge of his boot and seeps into the fabric of his sock. The pipe they are walking down is narrow and the ceiling low, he can barely walk straight and Sam behind him has been muttering ever since they got down here, back bent like a pretzel.

Dean is walking in front, because that’s what he does. Sam is taking the rear with Bill between them. Dean had wanted to the leave the police behind but the man had refused and Dean could tell Sam was a bit impressed against his will. So Bill walks with them, lugging the heavy, steel gas cans so the brothers have their hands free. One shotgun in hand, and one on their respective backs, all of them loaded with shells filled with rock salt.

On each of the petrol cans they have mounted a nozzle with a pump handle, something that for whatever reason had been lying around in the store room at the police station. The makeshift flame throwers are Sam’s bright idea and Dean surely hope they will work. To be safe, they all carry matches.

Dean jiggles his foot with distaste, trying to shake of the sewer water, to absolutely no effect. His sock is still wet and he knows he will have to throw away his shoes. It does nothing to improve his mood.

“Are we there yet?” he says.

“Give me a sec,” Sam answers from behind him and Dean can hear how he unfolds the map. Dean studies the concrete walls, the beam of his head-torch a round circle of light wherever he aims it. There is nothing to be seen though, no hiding places for ghosts or loose limbs lying around.

“Sure, should be just around the corner” Sam says “That will place us exactly below the street where the guy died.

“Didn’t you say that 10 minutes ago,” Dean mutters, but he keeps walking; following the pool of yellow light that he casts in front of him.

“Can’t believe there was no manhole closer,” he adds and he can hear Sam snort behind him, but it is the friendly kind, the ‘stop whining so much’ snort so he lets it go.

They trundle along for a while, it all looks the same, grey walls and damp and Dean can’t keep track of time. They hear rats scurrying along in front and behind them, always outside the range of their lights and Dean swears they are snickering at them from afar. At one point he accidently touches the wall with his shoulder, feeling the slimy wall, and he startles away and grimaces in disgust.

Then it is on them so fast they don’t have time to react. One second it is still and empty and the next chaos is everywhere. The gun is ripped from Dean’s hand and flies into the wall so hard the wooden handle splinters and the metal groans and cracks. He almost falls forward from the momentum but is pulled straight by Sam’s hand on his shoulder.

Sam holds on to him as he backs up a step.

“Bill the cans, now!” Sam shouts.

Dean regains his control and grabs the weapon slung over his shoulder. He and Sam in synchrony blasts of a salted round each down the darkness where they sort of sense something. They are rewarded with a hissing screech.

Sam takes his spent gun and reloads it. Dean turns around and grabs a can that Bill is handing him. He can practically hear the ghost coming back.

“Burn motherfucker” He shouts and with all the strength he has he lifts up the steel petrol tank and flips open his lighter as he presses the handle. The dark is banished in an instant as red and orange flames fill the narrow space. He pushes the handle again and again, a deadly pillar of fire preceding him.

He can hear Sam shouting in the dark somewhere behind him and the noise of a sawed of shotgun going off rings in his ears. He dare not turn around and look but instead focuses on torching every surface he can access. The walls crackle and smoke as his fire burns the lichens and mosses growing on them and a stench worse than anything he has ever felt is spreading as the tunnels burn.

He is moving steadily forward when he risks a quick glance over his shoulders and sees Bill working the handle of the other flame thrower, Sam standing guard. His brother’s head moves back and forth searching for that darker piece of black. The light is a wild flickering red, casting mad shadows over everyone and in that moment he thinks that Sam is burning from the inside, flames trying to escape the confines of his skin.

His brother seems to feel his gaze and turns around. Sam smiles at him, a huge ear-to-ear grin and Dean laughs out loud. He is standing in a sewer with a homemade flame thrower in his hands, and damn it if he is not happier than he has been in a long, long while.

He grins back and he can feel Sam sharing his elation. His eyes are stinging from the smoke that’s quickly building up and the muscles in his arms are burning from holding the heavy gas can but he suddenly feels absolutely sure that this will work; it is Sam’s plan after all.

As he is about to turn back he sees Sam’s face freeze and even though he can’t hear it over the ear deafening crack from the fire he understands the shout and he throws himself sideways as Sam pulls up the shotgun and blasts at the space Dean had occupied but a second ago.

He slams into the concrete hard, his head bouncing of the wall as something pushes past him at high speed, a brief feeling of pain as the thing slashes his arm as it passes. Dean loses his grip of the can and it splashes water all over him as it hits the floor and rolls over, flame extinguished.

He slides to his knees, one hand trying to find a grip on the slick wall, his head-torch is blown and he can only see the outline of his brother, trying to reload the gun but struggling with something only visible in fits. A darkness there one instant and gone the next.

He forces his legs to straighten and his vision to clear, he pushes of the wall in time to see Sam go down. He stagers to his feet and throws himself towards his brother. He hits an invisible wall, strains of darkness that rolls around him, around his arms and forcing him to stop mere feet away from Sam.

Sam’s head is below water, his body convulsing and rolling as it fights his invisible assailant. Dean can see the air leaving his brother’s lungs, bubbles breaking on the surface, half cries instantly broken coming with them. Dean tries screaming himself but he can’t hear it, his voice drowned out by the cacophony around him.

He can still see Bill on the other side of Sam, back towards them, slowly advancing away from them as he sweeps his flame back and forth. He holds his can up as if it is getting lighter, running out of fuel. Dean pushes against his restraints and he feels like he is running in tar, moving only inches however much he pushes.

He tries shouting to Bill, but the man can’t hear him and Dean is moving too slowly. He can see Sam struggling, losing power, his body stilling as he runs out of air.

“Sam don’t you give up,” he mumbles as he fights to move, to lift his legs and get closer to his brother, “Don’t you dare give up.”

His face is burning from the heat being radiated from the torched walls and if he is crying his tears evaporate as soon as they are let loose. He cannot move, his mind and body screaming in protest as he can only look on as his brother fights for his life.

Then Sam is completely still and Dean can see strands of blond hair just below the surface, flowing back and forth like seaweed.

He doesn’t notice when the ghost leaves his brother’s limp body behind and focuses its full strength on him. He is not even aware that dark tentacles, made from air but strong as steel, slips in around his neck, gently first as they snake all the way around before tightening its grip, squeezing his windpipe shut.

All he can see is a pale hand floating gently up to the surface, limp, and unguided.

 

ooo

 

In the other end of the tunnel Bill is pushing forward, trying to force the last of the petrol out of the can. He can’t see anymore, eyes blurred by acrid smoke and he don’t think he will ever be able to breath freely again, the fumes driving away the oxygen.

It is then that he sees it. A piece of white at first only partly glimpsed. He almost misses it, too tired to register fully what he is seeing. Yet his mind catches up to him and he turns instantly, the flame burning a diagonal path on his retina as he aims it at the splinter of bone he has caught sight of.

He holds the tank slanted forward, trying to keep it burning for a moment longer. His hands are shaking now and he has trouble aiming. He knows the instant his flame hit the mark though; a piercing shriek fills the tunnel, penetrating his tired mind and giving him new power.

He moves as close as he can, burning the piece of bone to ashes and everything around it, then the flame flickers and dies as the howl ends.

The silence that falls is like death itself.

It is broken in an instant by the sound of a body hitting water. Bill turns around, the only piece of light left is the torch on his head and it seems too weak now. It lands on Dean’s soot darkened face as he throws himself forward, arms pushing down below the water surface and lifting the still body of his brother. The look on his face is enough to bring Bill to his knees and any sense of victory he had been harboring is replaced by a strange hollow feeling.

He finds he can’t move to help, only look on as Dean tries to shake life into his brother. Bill closes his eye as a new desperate howling fills the darkness.

 

 

  1. **Goodbyes**



Dean wakes up slowly, his consciousness gradually drifting back in bits and pieces. His whole body hurts, in an allover sort of way; pain telling the familiar story of a hunt.

The room is light, sun trickling in between the curtains. He turns slowly and sees the alarm clock’s bright red numbers. He has to blink and focus before he can wake up enough to make out the time; already afternoon.

He wants to stay in bed forever, never getting up again but he knows that’s not an alternative. He sighs and sits up, rolling his shoulders, all the little aches and pains making themselves known. The sound of the bathroom door opening turns his head.

Sam comes out in a cloud of steam, the smell of shampoo and wet tiles following him out. He is barefoot and toweling his hair, clean jeans and shirt on. Dean is struck dumb for a second, thinking about how close it had been.

Yesterday he had almost lost his brother. Yesterday Sam had almost drowned.

He can still feel the cold grip of claws around his heart, the terror so all-consuming it should have drowned him too. He felt the weight of Sam in his arms; saw the sick tint of his skin and his closed eyes. He had stopped breathing himself, unable to cope with even the basic reflex of drawing in air.

Then Sam’s entire body had convulsed, and foul water had poured out his mouth and nose. Dean had turned him sideways and held his head as Sam came back to life. Dean had felt it, life coming crashing back in, filling his brother again. He had held on long after the coughing had stopped and Sam’s breathing was back to normal again. His hands unwilling to let go now that Sam has been returned to him.

He had neither prayed, thanked, nor begged. His being filled up with the simple task of holding on to Sam. He knew that someday, probably sooner than later, Sam would not come back to him. Or it would be him dead in a sewer; body limp and lifeless, eyes unseeing. He knew this like he knew his name, it was not something he contemplated or regretted. It was just the way of the world.

But that day was not today and Sam said his name.

“Dean?”

“Yes, I’m here Sammy.”

“Good.”

 

ooo

 

Dean shakes himself and returns to the present.

“You’ve showered, again?” he asks, eyebrow lifted.

Sam shakes himself, “Yeah. I don’t think I will ever get the stench of sever off me,” He grimaces and Dean laughs at him.

“It was there before dude,” he smiles wide and puts his hands up in time to catch the shoe Sam throws at him.

Sam smiles as well and throws himself down on his bed, reaching for the remote and turning on the TV. He speaks to Dean without looking at him, “Get going so we can get something to eat, I’m starving.”

Dean holds on the shoe, turning it over absently in his hands while studying his brother’s profile as a sense of calm fills him. Perhaps even happiness.

 

ooo

 

Dean is just about ready when there is a knock on the door; two sharp raps and Dean thinks it has to be the police, the surety of the sound speaking of someone used to being in charge. He puts his feet down in his boots and rubs a hand over his hair, trying for at least a hint of order. He opens the door; Bill is standing with his back to the door, apparently taking in the weak morning sunshine.

The heat seems to have finally broken and the air is cool on the skin of Dean’s arms. At the sound of the door opening Bill turns around. He has a clean uniform on, impeccably starched and fitted to him. Apart from a dark cast around his eyes and the gaze of someone who has seen a bit too much, he looks like the same carefree man who had greeted them to town just a few days ago.

“Morning,” Dean says, one arm leaning against the door frame.

“Morning,” Bill adds, waving at Sam over Dean’s shoulder. Sam waves back distractedly before letting his focus be drawn back to the cartoons on the TV.

“You got a minute?” Bill adds.

“Sure,” Dean steps out and gently closes the door behind him. Outside, a clear blue sky and a feeling that you can see for miles greets him. The air is refreshing and he takes a deep breath, enjoying the feeling of being alive for a moment.

 “Is he ok?” Bill waves his hat in the direction of the motel.

“Yeah, he will be fine, he has lived through worse,” Dean says and knows that it is true.

Bill keeps his hat in his hand and he looks at him and Dean can tell the police is not liking what he has to say next.

“I’m sorry Dean but I’m going to have to ask you and your brother to leave town,” he sounds apologetic but not actually sorry.

Dean slumps his shoulders, he had hoped to be given some time to rest up before they moved on, but he understands. No one wants them around once the killing is done and over with. Having them around reminded people too much about what had just happened and how that did not fit how they saw the world. Normal people needed a world without monsters.

“I understand,” he said.

“It’s just,” Bill hesitated, “I have to look after my town and the longer you stay here the harder it will be to pretend you are actually FBI agents.”

Dean nods, “Yeah I know, give me an hour to pack up and we will be on our way.

Bill looks relieved that the situation is so easily resolved.

“I can’t believe you are leaving again. At least I get to say goodbye this time,” he adds grinning wide, hands on his hips, hat dangling from two fingers.

Dean allows himself a smile, smitten by Bill’s contagious humor. He reaches out his hand towards Bill.

“Thank you for everything, its’ been an honor,” he says.

Bill looks at his hand and then quickly around the outside of the motel and says, “Like hell” He laughs and uses Dean’s outstretched hand to pull him close, hugging him tight. He leans over and kisses Dean, who lets him.

Afterwards Bill pulls apart, he looks a bit flustered but happy.

“I will miss you,” he says simply

Dean just smiles and shrugs as if saying -ain’t that a bitch.

“Just leave before I change my mind and won’t let you leave at all,” Bill says. He turns around, one hand pressing his hat down on his head and the other raised in a greeting as he walks away. Dean stays to watch him leave; he is filled with a sense of nostalgia at happy memories but nothing more.

At his car Bill turns around and shouts back at him, “You take care now,” and then he is driving away, out of Dean’s life.

 

 

  1. **Acceptance**



 It is late afternoon and Dean is pulling the car over to the side of the road. They are driving down a narrow country lane running up the side of a sloping hill. To their right a steep drop allows them to see far away over trees and farmland. The sun is low on the horizon, a yellow ball of fire behind them.

Sam wakes up as the car stops, he yawns and stretches like a cat. Arms and legs filling the small space and Dean looks at him in a way he would never had allowed himself before all this.

Sam notices him looking; he smiles and raises an eyebrow.

“Need a drink,” Dean says and gets out of the driver‘s seat and walks up to the booth. He pulls out two glass bottles of beer and opens them both. He hands one over to Sam who comes up to stand beside him.

“Should I be drinking?” He asks Dean in a mocking voice that tells Dean that he is already tired of his brother’s nursing.

“You have had worse,” Dean says.

Sam smiles, “Will likely have worse yet,” he says, looking at Dean as if to judge his reaction.

Dean just nods, it is easier that way. At least now he thinks Sam might let him be there to protect him; there is nothing else he can do.

They drink their beers in silence for a while, leaning against the hood of the Impala. Dean is looking straight forward, yet not seeing anything. No cars pass and it is as if the world is empty and all laid out just for them.

“Are we ok?” Dean asks then, because he actually isn’t sure.

Sam turns to look at the scenic view and Dean in turn looks as Sam’s profile contrasted against the blue sky.

“Do you regret what happened?” he asks Dean finally and Dean cannot lie.

“No,” and it is almost true, he doesn’t.

Dean knows it is the wrong thing to think but he is also beginning to understand that the way he has been, trying to do the right thing, that had been what had been driving Sam away from him. He has a nagging suspicion that his insistency to see things in black in white has gotten a heavy turn. Some things are maybe neither good nor bad, they simply are.

Actually, in reality, he wants to do it again. Place his hands on Sam in any way possible. Feel the weight of Sam’s body on top of him and the fullness of him moving inside of him, hear him beg his name over and over.

Sam turns and meets his gaze, seeing the look in Dean’s eyes he smiles, “Then, we will be alright.”

 

 

-The End-

 

 


End file.
